“I’m marrying someone else,” Craeg added.
“Sly dog … yehavebeen busy in my absence.” His friend managed a wan smile then. “Well … who is she?”
“Her name’s Hazel. She’s a herb-wife from Lochbuie.”
Greig stilled. “Ye cast aside a chieftain’s daughter for a common healer?” His tone was incredulous.
Craeg frowned. “She’s Hamish Macquarie’s daughter.”
Confusion rippled across his friend’s face. “No, that’s Isla.”
“He has another daughter … one that grew up amongst the Macleans,” Craeg answered, shaking his head. “Three decades ago, Macquarie raped one of our women in a raid.”
Another silence fell in the bedchamber, this one brittle.
Eventually, Greig muttered an oath under his breath. “I thought Ailean was a fool when it came to the lasses … but ye have bested him.”
Craeg flushed hot. He didn’t like to be compared to Ailean in that regard. His friend had bedded half the serving lasses between here and Tobermory.
“All women want to do is tie ye down …ownye,” Greig went on, the hardness in his voice odd for someone so young. “And now ye’re about to let a healer make ye the laughingstock of Mull.”
Anger flashed through Craeg, making him sweat. “It’s not like that. Hazel isn’t like that. She’s—”
“Bonnier than a summer’s dawn? Sweeter than heather honey?” Greig’s gaze was pitying now. “She’s just a lass, Craeg. They’re all the same.”
“Hazel isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met,” Craeg ground out, even as his temper boiled. He wanted to tell Greig that she’d calmed the restlessness inside him, had even quieted the lurking fear that his father’s blood would eventually show itself, but he checked himself. His friend would only mock him for it.
“They always are different.” Greig’s voice held a weariness that made him sound decades older. “Until they’re not.”
Craeg glared at him. This wasn’t how he'd imagined this conversation going. He’d thought Greig would understand and that he’d support him. Once again, the gulf between them showed itself.In just a couple of months, they’d grown apart, and now that Craeg’s hunger to lose himself in the chaos of battle had gone, he wondered if they’d ever really had much in common.
Greig observed him a moment longer before his expression softened slightly. “Ye have gone and fallen for her, haven’t ye?”
Craeg swallowed before managing a slight nod.
“How did Da react when ye asked for his blessing?”
“Badly.” He grimaced then, recalling the scene in the clan-chief’s solar. “I might have … accidentally … insulted him.”
His friend’s gaze widened. “How?”
“I reminded him that he fell for a woman far beneath his own rank … and wed her.”
Greig’s dark brows knitted together. Of course, they were talking about his mother. He didn’t appreciate it either. “I’m surprised ye aren’t now mumbling through the bloody stumps of yer teeth,” he replied, his tone cooling.
“MacDonald interrupted us.” His pulse quickened then. “But I’ll need to face him again. Tomorrow. I can’t leave without his blessing.”
“Then ye’ll have to humble yerself before him.” Greig studied Craeg for a long moment. “My father has the pride of a stag, and ye have sorely bruised it. If ye want his blessing, make him feel like he’s granting ye a favor … but that ye will accept whatever he decides.”
Craeg’s own pride bristled at the suggestion, but he forced it down. Greig was right. His approach this afternoon had been all wrong.
Raising his cup to his lips, he drained it before nodding.
23: THE RIGHT THING
HAZEL PRESSED THE clay cup of willow bark tea into the woman’s hands. “Here … this should help yer sore throat.”
The woman—round-faced and weathered, with kind eyes—nodded gratefully. “Thank ye, mistress. What do I owe ye?”
